


The Facts in the Case of E. Valdemar

by the_night_light



Series: Step Upon A Stair [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe-Vampire, Case Fic, Gen, Indecisive John Watson, Sherlock in Danger, Step Upon a Stair Series, Troubled Epic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_night_light/pseuds/the_night_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is called upon a case that involves a man who claims he can bring back the dead. Now that he needs John's help more than ever, his blogger has begun to drift away, overwhelmed by the previous revelations of Sherlock's nature. Now they must embark on what may be their final case together to not only save London from a serial killer, but to save each other as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill" -Hound of the Baskervilles
> 
> This story borrows the character and idea of that most creepy of stories by Edgar Allan Poe, "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar" (which if you haven't read yet, you should :)
> 
> This is the second part of the series "Step Upon a Stair".

For Sherlock Holmes the uncovering of mysteries is merely cerebral, the equivalent to some sort of intellectual push-up. Revelation is boring rather than shocking, its aftershocks nil, its consequences settled once another feather has been added to his cap.

However, our last case, that of the Gerrideb Brothers, had uncovered the mystery that was Sherlock himself. I cannot say that it was unlike any other case in that my friend revealed those truths that are always there for those who can but see them. However, I believe I must defend my obliviousness by pointing out that this is something I could never have seen, for as a modern man, a man of science and reason myself, I would never think to look for the impossible.

And that’s what it was. Impossible. I found myself in the three weeks following the conclusion of the Gerrideb case running circles in my mind. I simply could not reconcile the two knowns of my problem: that of Sherlock, the man with whom I had lived and worked these last few months, the great mind, the detective, and the man I had thought of as my best friend and that other variable – Sherlock, the vampire. Such an equation was simply ridiculous.

I wished there was room for doubt, that this was all some thin theory of madness, but there was no doubt. Being the empiricist he was, Sherlock had demonstrated his nature by baring fangs, biting me and drinking my blood. Perhaps as always he had been two steps ahead, knowing that in the weeks to come I would do as I had done, sought holes in the logic, in the scene, in any glance or move on my friend’s part to bring us both back to where we had been before this whole insanity had commenced.

For, instead of cases, I now preoccupied myself by thinking back over the months of our acquaintance, trying to recall any incident that spoke of the supernatural and could find nothing. I began to observe Sherlock in earnest and our time together turned into a petri dish of moments that I would later catalog and examine. Soon enough, I even broke this pattern off, finding excuses to remain at Bakers Street when Lestrade had summoned us, or patients to keep me late at the clinic. In other words, I found myself avoiding Sherlock, but at the same time, the thought of him overwhelmed and obsessed me.

If I had just asked him the many questions on my mind, perhaps we both could have been spared the awkwardness and distance that grew between us. How many times I had begun to ask how it was that he could walk about in the day if he was a vampire, or when or where or with whom he got his blood, or what strange abilities he possessed… Perhaps the reason I did not question was not so much that he would amaze me by turning into a bat or summoning rats or calling to wolves, but that it would further reveal how little of the man I truly knew.

Of course, the fact that Sherlock had taken the Gerrideb case, had revealed himself to me for my own benefit weighed on my mind as well. Concern for me, for my mortality had been the motivation for all this. I knew that my friend had a methodical nature that did not act on whims. He had told me what he was so that I could solve the problem of dying on him by allowing him to change me into one such as himself. If he had done all this, it meant he believed there was hope I could accept his offer.

Then perhaps the reason I did not question him was for myself most of all. If that mind that so easily perceived the hearts and motives of his fellow man saw that in me, was the question therefore not so much _if_ I could find the desire within me to accept his offer, as _when_?


	2. Chapter 2

That night I had nodded off at my clinic and woke with a start to find Sherlock Holmes sitting on my desk and observing me with a blank and patient stare.

Startled, I rocked backwards, upsetting my chair and landing in a crumble on the floor. Unperturbed, Sherlock leaned over the desk and said, “John, are you available?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” I said. “How did you get in?”

He gestured. “I convinced the security guard that I had to see you – it was a question of life and death.”

“Really?” That sounded rather dubious. “And is it?”

“It is.”

“So much so that you could not have called me on my cell or on my office phone?”

“Indeed.” I sighed and Sherlock continued. “You have been a hard man to get a hold of lately. I thought it best to come in person.”

“Ah.” I couldn’t deny that. “Fine.” Pulling myself up, I rolled my chair back to the desk and knotted my hands together. “How can I help?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. I had addressed him as a patient, not a friend, but he made no comment. “You can come with me tonight.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“Where?” He pulled his phone from his pocket and showed me an email. “Edgar Valdemar, hypnotist? You want me to go with you to a show to watch a parlor trick?”

Pale eyes bright, Sherlock said, “Not just any show John, read on. This Valdemar is a specialist in his field.”

Frowning, I squinted to read the tiny digital print. “The man without fear, Edgar Valdemar will show his mastery over that greatest of dreads, that greatest horror: Death itself.” I paused. “He hypnotizes dead people?”

“More than that, John. Will you come?” His eyes held mine for the longest time and I felt myself think ‘no’, think ‘he and I are alone in this room’ and felt my heart speed up in fear and dread and horror. But he surprised me by saying, “If this must be our last case, then so be it. I need your help, John. Please.”

“Yes.” Slipped past my lips and then he was smiling and pulling me out of the chair and out of the office and by then it was just too late to say anything at all.


	3. Chapter 3

The venue for the show was small, clean, intimate. In fact, for a show that featured hypnotism of the dead, it was most commonplace. The low stage held only a single chair over which a spotlight shone. Neat rows of foldable chairs had already filled by the time Sherlock and I arrived. These were occupied by well-dressed men and women. There were even a few children.

An usher brought us to our seats. Glancing around, I almost expected the smell of popcorn to waft through the air or to see concessions being sold. It had the incongruous atmosphere of a school play or a street magic show.

When I glanced at him, Sherlock’s entire attention centered on the stage. He leaned forward, his steepled fingers under his chin. Not having said anything in the cab on the way here, I found myself unable to say anything now. Instead I continued to observe the people around us as they spoke excitedly to each other or tensed in anticipation or seemed on the verge of weeping.

Finally, the overhead lights extinguished and that single spotlight illuminated a man as he walked onto the stage. Dressed all in black, from leather shoes to tie to the circles of his eyes, Edgar Valdemar bowed deeply as the crowd thundered into applause. Raising a calming hand, he said, “Thank you. And thank you for your patience. The conditions that allow our demonstration are strict and it was but ten minutes ago that Mr. Summerfield had passed.”

As he spoke, who men wheeled a gurney onto the stage. On it a white sheet covered a figure. Gently, Valdemar uncovered him and turned back to the crowd. “First, so no one can doubt that what you are about to see is no trick, I would like to ask if anyone in the audience tonight is a doctor, or a nurse, perhaps?”

To my surprise, Sherlock’s hand went up. “My friend here is a doctor.” He said as Valdemar called upon him.

“Sir?” Valdemar said.

“I am.” I replied and proceeded up to the stage when Valdemar asked if I could confirm if the man was truly dead. Glancing out at the crowd, I could make out Sherlock, watching intently as I examined the man. There were no tourniquets of any sort that I could find, no means to obstruct the pulse-there was no pulse. “Yes. He is deceased.”

“Thank you.” Valdemar said and asked me to take my seat in the only chair that occupied the stage. “As a medical man, I want you to observe the proceeding and to report to the crowd if there is any illusion you can ascertain, any “trick” that you can see.”

“Very well.”

He turned to the crowd. “Know that before he died, Mr. Summerfieldhad allowed me to prepare him for this moment. This included hypnotism at the moment of death, but it also included a week of working with him, getting his mind, body, and, most of all, his soul ready for what would come. This was not as much time as would be optimal, but Mr. Summerfield only wished to return for a short time so that his cooperation might help others decide what they must do.”

I took my seat and watched as the crowd watched Valdemar lean over the body and begin to whisper into the man’s ear. Absolute silence descended until the only sound were these whispers…and another sound that to my shock I realized was another voice. There were gasps and cries from the crowd as we realized that this second voice belonged to the corpse.

“Are you Thomas Summerfield?” Valdemar asked.

“I…was.” Came the reply.

“Did you die tonight, Mr. Summerfield?”

“Yes...”

“Do you wish to live?”

“No…I am...satisfied.”

“What do you want to tell the people here tonight, Mr. Summerfield?”

“Do not...despair.”

And with that, Valdemar’s voice went soft and the words were no longer clear. When he had gone silent, he gestured for me and I again examined the man. To my astonishment, I immediately found his pulse, but as I stood there, it slowed beneath my fingers, and stopped.

When Valdemar took his bow that night, the applause continued like a roar that had no end.


	4. Chapter 4

Later that morning, for by then it was morning, Sherlock and I had returned to Bakers Street. As my friend lounged in his robe, I sat with my face in my hands.

“Is it so, then,” I began. “That nothing is impossible?”

“Tell me, John. What is your impression of Edgar Valdemar?” Sherlock asked, ignoring my question, my existential crisis and the fact that I sat there disheveled and tense as a wire in yesterday’s clothes.

“Other than the fact that he has the ability to bring back the dead?”

“That has already been noted.”

“Damn it Sherlock!”

“Just your observations.”

“Why?”

“Because I would like to know.”

I glanced at him. He lay back upon the couch, peering at me with that placid look that was his wont lately. “Very well.” I forced myself to stand and walk to the kitchen. Placing a kettle onto the stove, I began, “He is middle-aged, charismatic, well-dressed and obviously well-connected.”

“Ah, so you observed the faces in the crowd as well.”

“Well. It was a who’s-who, wasn’t it?”

“What else?”

“He is trying to sell something. That…show, demonstration, whatever it was….wasn’t the end, but a means to an end. But for the life of me, I cannot say what he could possibly be selling with such a display that people would want.”

“I can perhaps answer that, or actually, Lestrade can.”

“Lestrade?”

“Yes. As my blogger has been unusually occupied, I have answered Scotland Yard’s summons on my own of late.”

“Ah…”

“Had my blogger accompanied me, or read the papers or watched telly, instead of wandering about like some Hamlet after his father’s ghost, he would have found there has been a serial killer on the loose that to date has claimed ten.”

“I…had not heard.”

“Furthermore, he _would_ have heard that the common denominator in these crimes is the fact that the dead are always a couple and always include a half that is troubled by some terminal disease. He would have discovered that these couples have one further common variable.”

“Edgar Valdemar.” I guessed and Sherlock nodded. “But that makes no sense. He brings people back from the dead, why would he kill them?”

Sherlock shrugged and the kettle began to scream. “Now, that is the question, isn’t it?”

“What are you going to do?” I said, removing the kettle and gathering two cups.

“You had asked what Valdemar is endeavoring to sell. I have found that he has opened what he purports to be a medical spa just outside of London. There, he claims his suffering patients can expand their comfort and extend their lives, indefinitely.”

“So you’re going there.”

“I had hoped to go undercover.”

“But you have changed your mind?”

Sherlock stood and slowly came into the kitchen, slowly sat in the empty chair across from where I had settled at the table. I watched him and wondered if this careful movement was for my benefit. As he neared I felt my hands grip onto my cup, my heart begin to speed. Deliberately, he took hold of his own cup and drank. “I may have no choice.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because my preliminary intelligence has revealed that admittance to the spa is near impossible. There are criteria.”

“Such as?”

“Such as being immensely wealthy, willing to cut all ties to the world…and being a couple that includes a terminal half.”

“Surely Lestrade…”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “Lestrade has already sent in agents, but none have been accepted. One observation I myself have made of Valdemar is that he possesses a rare and dangerous intellect. There will be no fooling him.”

“Then you are giving up?” I heard my voice rise.

“It is a question of logistics.”

“Do you think he will kill again?”

“Oh, yes. I have no doubt.”

“Then do something!”

Sherlock rose. “I believe I have made it clear, John, that in this case, I can do nothing alone.” He said and with an unhappy look, turned and disappeared into his room.

For a long time I sat at the table, staring at his empty chair, his steaming cup. I pulled out my phone and made a search of the recent news, noting the long trail of reports of a killer on the loose who had cut short the already short lives of the dying as well as that of their lover. It was cruel and dark and I knew I could not allow Sherlock to drop the case, no matter what.

Even so, it took me half the morning to finally get to my feet and knock on his door. He opened it, looking surprised to see me standing on the other side. “Alright.” I said. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued! Please let me know what you think so far :)


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